


Thy going out and thy coming in

by ariadnes_string



Series: Jewish!Lestrade [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Community: purimgifts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re drunk.”</p><p>“A bit tipsy, yeah.”   Lestrade had shed his jacket, was deftly unbuttoning his shirt.   “But it’s a mitzvah to be drunk on Purim.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy going out and thy coming in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



Sherlock was in bed when he heard the key turn in the lock.

He wasn’t sleeping, just thinking in a horizontal position. And the best place to do that at the moment was his bed. The sofa had become rather too cluttered for such activities. Worse, it had been the site of an unfortunate incident of spillage earlier in the week. The smell lingered.

He recognized a familiar step on the stair, and tried to remember whose bright idea it had been to give Lestrade a key. Ah, John’s, of course. He’d said something about there being a limit to the number of times he was willing to trundle downstairs in the middle of the night just because Sherlock couldn’t be fucked to get off his arse. Especially when he, John, wasn’t the one about to get fucked.

Sherlock had gently chided him for the unnecessary use of barracks language in civilian life, but John had somehow won the point anyway.

And now Lestrade was making his unannounced way into the flat at one in the morning. Sherlock frowned. Lestrade’s step had an uncharacteristic drag to it, a hesitation.

“Sorry to wake you,” Lestrade said, finally coming into the room. “Should’ve rung first.”

“Not sleeping.” Sherlock didn’t bother to get up or turn on the light. “Thinking.”

“Ah,” Lestrade drawled knowingly. “Couch still toxic, is it?”

“You’re drunk.” The evidence slotted together, and Sherlock mentally berated himself for failing to deduce Lestrade’s condition from the speed of his key turning in the outer door. Regular sex must have been making him soft.

“A bit tipsy, yeah.” Lestrade had shed his jacket, was deftly unbuttoning his shirt. “But it’s a mitzvah to be drunk on Purim.”

“Only if you also go to synagogue, I expect.” Sherlock pushed himself up slightly on his pillows so as to get a better view of Lestrade’s neat body emerging from his clothes. Lestrade was pulling his vest over his head now, and except for the dim light from the street glinting off his silver hair, he could have been twenty-five. Sherlock had thought he’d be immune by now to the sight of those limbs, their symmetry, their easy strength. But they stirred him still, every time.

“I have been to temple, you heathen.” Lestrade stepped out of his trousers and briefs, kicked them away. “Ruth told me if I didn’t come see Daisy and Hannah in their Esther and Vashti costumes, she’d cut off my avuncular privileges for good.”

“Playing princess, were they?” Sherlock pitched his voice to be as dismissive as possible. Lestrade was far too sentimental about his nieces at the best of times.

“Mmm. Gorgeous, they were. Tiaras and everything,” Lestrade said fondly, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock’s disdain.

“And there was drink. Scotch by the smell of you.”

“Scotch,” Lestrade agreed happily. Entirely naked now, he stretched himself out next to Sherlock and insinuated both a shoulder and a hip under Sherlock’s body, nudging at him until they were both almost on their sides. “Budge up.”

Sherlock thought he should probably feel crowded, should want to shift away. But he’d grown to find Lestrade’s solidity pleasant, to welcome the work-worn scent of him, present even now under the alcohol and clean-laundry smell of his temple-going. When Lestrade slipped a hand between the folds of his dressing gown, palming over his stomach, he could only muster up a halfhearted protest.

“This doesn’t seem very kosher, on a holiday and all.”

“Sex is a mitzvah too.” Lestrade dipped his hand lower, playing with the waistband of Sherlock’s pajamas.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt this is what your God had in mind,” Sherlock snorted, though it was no good trying to disown his response to that practiced hand.

“How would you know what my God had in mind, you goyishe atheist, you?” Lestrade’s slightly slurred words burred in Sherlock’s ear as he neatly flipped the dressing gown out of the way and tugged at the pajamas until they were skin-to-skin.

“Would it better if I were a Jewish atheist?” Sherlock tried to sound indignant, but the hot length of Lestrade’s prick slid between his thighs, and theological debate was suddenly beyond him. He opened his mouth to speak again, but all that emerged was a low, guttural sound, somewhere between a moan and growl.

“For my mum, it would be. Would make up for a lot, that.” Lestrade’s voice held a sly edge of amusement, as he molded himself more closely around Sherlock’s arse, reached around to bring Sherlock’s rapidly hardening prick into closer contact with his own. He rocked them both with his hands and hips, dragging a rough thumb over the head of Sherlock’s prick, and sucking a mark into the skin at the nape of his neck.

It was too much. Sherlock fell into the current of it, as if into a stream—the rhythm of their hips rolling together, the friction of their cocks, the ragged in-and-out of their breathing. And his own pleasure, coiling tighter and tighter inside him until it spiraled outwards instead, and he spent himself over Lestrade’s fist and his last clean set of sheets.

With a happy grunt, Lestrade followed him, and lay heavy and panting against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock would never have admitted it aloud, but he welcomed the weight; as so often with Lestrade, he felt a bit as if he’d given too much of himself in the act, as if he might float away. It was good to have an anchor.

Still, he felt the need to keep up the appearance of righteous indignation at having his thinking interrupted. “No sleeping,” he said, elbowing Lestrade in the ribs. “Your turn to clean up. Punishment for talking about your mother in the heat of passion.”

“Inna minnit,” Lestrade muttered into his shoulder, soft and boozy. And there was truly no hope for Sherlock, because he let him get away with it, and even fell asleep himself.

**Author's Note:**

> [brief definition of 'mitzvah'](http://wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn?s=mitzvah)
> 
> [brief definition of 'goyishe'](http://www.urbandictionary.com/products.php?term=goyishe&defid=1469430)
> 
> thank you to the generous folks at sh_britglish -- all remaining idiom-fail my own.
> 
> title from Psalm 121 (King James version)


End file.
